


Please Forgive Me

by AntiMaterielGirl



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Alcohol, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Slow Dancing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5237024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiMaterielGirl/pseuds/AntiMaterielGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charon rebuffs her advances, but a twist of fate conspires to bring them together in the end.<br/>Rated Explicit, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Forgive Me

I hop into my nicest dress, put on some lipstick, put up my hair. Every now and then, you just want to be pretty, even in the wasteland. I don’t think it’s too much to ask, to feel pretty for a little while.

He’s standing there, next to the door. There was no reaction when I came downstairs in a dress. No questions, no anything. He just observed it impassively like everything else.  I’d hoped for something, some acknowledgement, or a comment - but maybe that was asking for too much.

I pour myself a drink – okay, fine, it’s my second. I’m fond of scotch, perhaps a bit too fond. I turn on the jukebox and start to dance. This is what I really want – I miss the dances in the vault. Unfortunately, Gob’s doesn’t have enough room for a dance floor, so if I don’t want my ass grabbed, I have to do it at home. Simms prefers I do it at home, honestly – the last guy to grab my ass almost got buckshot to the face. Say what you like about Charon, but no one will ever say that he’s slow on the draw. Whenever I go upstairs, he follows – he says to be close, in case I need his protection. He makes it sound like something he would do for any employer.

The only thing missing is someone to dance with. I’ve tried to get him to dance with me before, but he’s always refused. He shrinks away from my touch, like I have a contagious disease or something. Ah, hell – it’s worth trying. I hold out my hand, and to my surprise he accepts it. Even though the music’s fast, I decide on a simple slow dance – nothing like what me and Butch used to do, but simple enough to where he can follow along.

“I don’t dance too good.” He says.

I look down at his huge feet. “Well, if you step on my feet, I forgive you.” I can feel the scotch now; I’m a bit tipsy. I know this is the most dangerous part of the night – where I say things that embarrass both of us, make me wish I’d just went to bed – but I don’t care. Tonight, I just want to feel pretty. I want to feel…wanted.

When the song ends, he sits in the nearby chair, shotgun in his lap while I dance alone. I take another sip of scotch, and a crazy thought enters my head. It crowds out everything else. I could just do it – tell him how I really feel...

I rush over to him and kiss him on the lips. “No!” he yells, angrily, pushing me away. Tears well up in my eyes, and I run to my room and slam the door. He can hear me crying through the wall, I know he can. I cry for hours, until I cry myself to sleep.

We barely speak, for days. I avoid him as much as I can, telling him to stay home while I do errands around town. People ask about him, and I just shrug, say he’s fine – that he just needs some alone time, I guess. It’s a guy thing.

I drink a lot; hole up in my room with books, but I don’t get a lot of reading done. I listen to him through the door, and cry myself to sleep. It’s like this for about a week, until I get tired of it. I need a change, so I start packing for the wasteland. “We’re leaving. Get your shit together.” I order, brusquely.

We head out into the wastes. I need to shoot something, kill something, to _feel_ something. He’s the same impassive giant he was in the house, almost bored until we find a few radscorpions. He’s almost graceful when he’s killing. The shotgun is like an extension of his arm; it’s like watching a ballet. A ballet of death and blood. It’s beautiful.

We stumble onto a nest of raiders – at least that’s what I figure, because one moment I’m walking along, minding my own business, the next I’m staring up at the sky with one hole in my chest, and another in my arm. I got the bastard, I think. I hope. If not, I’m dead for sure. I can hear shotgun blasts, explosions. I try to breathe deeply, and cough wetly. I touch my mouth…my arm is heavy. My hand comes away covered in blood. I can’t…breathe…

I gasp, like a fish out of water. Dimly, I think _at least I don’t have to live with this anymore; loving him, not being loved back._ I stare at the sky; watch the clouds, as the chatter of an SMG is abruptly ended with a shotgun blast. The sky is beautiful, and I will die today. I won’t have to worry about him anymore. No more pain of rejection.

“Em!” _Ugh, what now? Oh yeah…I’m dying._

I hear footsteps, loud ones; someone heavy running towards me. He touches my face, looks in my eyes. I’m sure the look on my face – a smile, even while I’m gasping for air – alarms him. “Em? Em!  Don’t die on me!” He shakes me a little, starts digging in his pack. I feel the brutal sting of a stimpak in my arm; he strips my armor off, lifts up my shirt and there’s another sting on my chest.

I can feel myself being lifted, carried. Time means nothing. Or maybe, it’s everything.  It all blurs together. Voices, faces, colors, sounds, impressions…

“Will she make it?” _Charon._

“You saved her life.” _Doc Church._

“Emmie? Oh no…honey, I’m here.” A hand on mine, stroking my arm. _Nova._

A cool, wet washrag on my forehead.

I wake up in bed, him sitting next to me in the chair. I groan, not only out of pain, but out of the realization that I’m stuck here. Stuck in this life, in this limbo of rejection and self-hate. There’s an expression of concern on his face, which promptly drops back into one of expectant impassivity. _Waiting for an order._ I can’t stand his face anymore, or his presence. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to see you today.”

He looks hurt, briefly, which surprises me. He hesitates, then gets up, closes the door behind him. I can hear his footsteps recede down the stairs; I can hear them stop at the door. Let him hurt. I’ve hurt plenty. I fall asleep with tears in my eyes, and wake up in the middle of the night. He’s sitting in the chair again, watching over me. I check the time on my Pip-boy – 12:04am. He took me literally. When I laugh, he turns his head quizzically, like Dogmeat used to do when he heard a funny sound.

“Can you get me a Nuka?” I ask. He nods and steps out the door. I can hear him fiddle with the machine outside, and in less than a minute, he’s back. He pops the cap off, sets it on the desk, and settles into his chair as I drink.

“You can go to sleep if you want. I feel a lot better now.” I can detect the ghost of a smile at the edges of his lips, and then he hauls himself up.

On the way out the door, he says, “Call me if you need anything.”

“Okay.” I reply. As soon as he leaves, I regret sending him away. Even if he doesn’t say anything, his company is nice. When I hear his door close and his bedsprings settle, I swing my legs off the side of the bed. I sit there for a second. I’ve been out almost three days, so I shouldn’t be that weak. Still, I’m a little hesitant. I lift my long nightshirt and poke at my new scar – no pain, no soreness. Healed. The one in the arm is less noticeable.

I take a deep breath and push myself up onto my feet. Not even wobbly! I dance a little jig and giggle. _Oh shit!_ I cover my mouth. I don’t want to wake Charon up. I quietly pad into the hall and down the stairs. I dig around in the fridge a bit; munch on some cold mirelurk cakes.

Munchies satiated, I climb the stairs. I glance over my shoulder at the jukebox, and get a silly urge to turn it on and dance. I glance nervously at his door. _Well, I did order him to go to sleep. Sort of._ Oh, what the hell! I run over to it, turn it on, and start to dance – I don’t need a partner to be happy. I’m alive, that’s all that matters. My nightshirt billows around my thighs, just like my dress.

Halfway through the second song, I feel strange – like someone’s watching me. I turn around, and he’s there, suddenly arm’s length away. He snatches me, pulls me to him, and kisses me forcefully. _What?!_ I struggle against him, and pull away. “I thought you said no.”

“I changed my mind.” Then his lips are on mine again, rough, his tongue forcing my mouth open, searching for mine. Reluctantly, he breaks away. He lifts me effortlessly, carries me to my room, lays me on the bed. He strokes my hair. “I thought I’d lose you.  I panicked. I…please.  Forgive me.”

“Shhh…” I peel off my shirt as he turns, clicks the light switch, and we’re in the dark. “I can’t see you,” I complain. There’s soft rustles, the heavy thump of his boots being tossed to the floor. His belt buckle clinks.

“You can feel me instead.” His coarse hands caress my breasts, my stomach, my hips. I gasp as I feel his warm, dry lips on my neck, moan as he sucks wetly. His hand parts me, strokes my firm, swollen nub. I can feel the weight of him on the bed, his breath in my ear, blowing through my hair.

It’s been so long since I’ve been with anyone that… _oh, yes, right there_. I push into his hand and grasp the bedsheets. “I’m…I’m!”  I gasp, then my body stiffens and shudders, the warmth between my legs exploding, a low moan escaping my lips. His strokes slow, and then stop. I can hear him breathing heavily; I can see him in the dim light filtering in through the door frame. I press my hand to his cheek. “Come here. I want you.” I whisper softly. He rises, parts my legs, and settles himself between them.

“Are you sure?” he asks, softly.

“Yes.” He eases into me slowly, and even so, it’s still painful. I whimper and my nails dig into his arms, as my brain fights to calm my body. Just when I feel I can’t take any more of him, he stops. Both of us are panting. I can feel the endorphins flood my body, overcoming the pain. He begins to thrust slowly, gently, and I wrap my legs around him, my cries of pleasure loud and intense. The smell of him – leather and gunpowder – fills my nose, and I think of how long I’ve waited for this moment. It is all that I ever hoped for, and more.

I can sense him reigning himself in, his passion tightly controlled, like a wild animal in a cage begging to be set free. “Take me.” I plead, and his restraint crumbles. He’s a beast, growling, thrusting into me hard and deep, filling me over and over again. I cry out as he plunges into me, scratching his arms, his back. I feel the tension inside me begin to build, a sweet fire burning my soul from the inside out. Then something inside me bursts; I scream his name and squeeze him tight, my whole body tensing, bucking underneath him. Two more savage thrusts and he releases himself into me with a loud, bestial grunt.

We’re both breathing heavily, slick with sweat. He rolls to the side, and I curl up next to him. I wish that I could be here, in this moment with him, forever. He wraps his arm around me, and I whisper softly, “I forgive you.”


End file.
